Phelelani Makhanya
There is a little yellow house
at the corner of the street,
where the jacaranda
has painted the paving purple.
Every morning the house
appears with a new face.
Its walls look untouched by
the frantic rain that fell at dawn.
Untouched by hands of stray souls
that read walls like braille,
looking for a home at night.
Untouched by muddy feet
of nightmares that cling and climb
walls like lizards in the dark.
I wonder what that little house is made of.
Maybe those curtains are made of concrete.
Maybe those doors are not doors;
they are deceiving paintings on solid walls.
Maybe that house is not a house;
it is a carved facade in the air.
That yard is a minefield, maybe.
The only voice there,
is a sound of unattended mulberries,
hitting the damp ground
like lazy dew drops from a tree.
Featured at The Red Wheelbarrow on 1 December 2022